


Father Figure (Pity and Compassion)

by lustig



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Caretaking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, Tréville's A+ Dad Skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22817365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: During training, in the heat of the moment, Athos says something to d'Artagnan that sends d'Artagnon running.But Tréville knows his Musketeers, and he has always felt a special connection to his Gascon recruit, so he goes to fix what Athos had messed up.
Relationships: d'Artagnan & de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Father Figure (Pity and Compassion)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grabmotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/gifts).



> For grabmotte, who was asking for a story of Treville and d'Artagnan bonding over their shared background and Treville being friends with d'Artagnan's father. Got a bit angstier than expected (who's surprised about this at this point, really? It's me after all...), but I hope it's still a story people can enjoy.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Liadt, who keeps cleaning up after me and my messy German english skills.

„At least my inability to properly use a rapier hasn’t killed my father!”

The _splash!_ of d’Artagnan’s sword falling into the mud of the yard rang loud in the sudden silence. He stared at Athos, with eyes full of hurt betrayal, and only a gloved hand wrapped around the blade of the older musketeer’s rapier stopped the attack from connecting with the young Gascon’s head.

Treville, his hand still clenched around Athos’ blade, stepped closer, in between the two duellists, and Athos blanched at the sight of his captain’s furious face.

“Pick up the sword,” Treville said, dangerously quiet. All the other musketeers had stopped fighting, tense and alert. Not all of them had been training when their captain had stopped the duel, some had already been watching – how they had started fighting with words as well as weapons, dancing back and forth, Athos criticising d’Artagnan’s technique, already upset by the terrible weather they were forced to train in. Treville had been watching from his balcony at first, then rushed down the stairs, striding through the mud of the yard, his brows furrowed.

He had reached the pair just in time.

Athos did not move, still holding his rapier, blocked by Treville’s hand, with an iron, terrified grip.

“I said, _pick up the sword_!” Treville shouted, and his eyes were the colour of ice, his whole body vibrating in an effort not to do anything he might regret later.

Flinching violently, Athos suddenly let go of his weapon and went down on his knees, a shaking hand wrapping around the blade of d’Artagnan’s rapier. His eyes never left those of Treville, who kept staring at him with unadulterated fury, and he had to search briefly until his fingers found the dirty steel.

As soon as he had got up again, struggling to find his balance, his body taunt and ready to run at the slightest notion of being dismissed, Treville shoved Athos’ sword against the musketeer’s chest, barely waiting long enough for him to instinctively secure its position with his free arm.

“Aramis!” he bellowed, still staring daggers at his lieutenant. About as white-faced as his friend, the beau appeared at his side, nervously bouncing on his heels.

“Captain?”

“You will accompany Comte de la Fère to the armoury and you will make sure he cleans _every single weapon_ there, starting with Monsieur d’Artagnan’s rapier, until he realises what he has done wrong and is properly apologetic for it. Then you will call me, and you will not speak to him nor help him while he is working. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

Athos had opened his mouth, as if to protest or complain, eyes already sparkling again with rebellious intent, but Aramis grabbed him by his arm and dragged him away before he could even huff out a breath.

Treville turned around and was unsurprised to see that d’Artagnan had already disappeared.

“Porthos.”

The third man from his bunch of troublemakers stepped forward, his head low between his shoulders.

“Sir.”

“Where did he go?”

“To the stables, Captain.”

Treville sighed and ran his fingers over his face and through his hair. He forced his shoulders to relax, causing the collective musketeer ranks to stop holding their breaths in worried anticipation.

“Did anyone follow him?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good. See that no one else does. Training is not over; you will supervise the rest of it. If d’Artagnan and I aren’t back until you are done, make yourself useful around the Garrison,” his sentence was addressed to the rest of the musketeers, and Treville let his eyes sweep over the assembled fighters in a way that made all of them feel like they’d been given a scolding right into their soul. They shuffled their feet, lowered their heads, nodded, and gave soft _yes Captain_ ’s in response. Treville gave a single, satisfied nod and turned towards the stables, his cloak billowing impressively around him.

~*~

He heard the soft sobbing when he stepped into the dimly lit stable, the twilight even more prominent due to the dark clouds outside, stopping even the little sunlight the horses usually got.

The sobbing froze, replaced by a sudden, surprised intake of breath, but Treville ignored it. Instead, he went to his asshole of a horse, his best friend in war, his faithful companion in battle, his beloved Bastard. The beast blew its warm breath in the Captain’s face, and then snuffled through his pockets, looking for a treat or two.

Treville chuckled, pulled out a small, shrivelled apple and, while the stallion was happily munching, pulled off his gloves, dropping them unceremoniously into the straw and pushed his hands below the thick mane of the raven-coloured monster.

He sighed contentedly; warming himself up with the heat radiated by Bastard and finally checked his hand, the one he had used to stop Athos’ attack. The leather had taken the impact off the blade, so it had not actually injured his skin, but the hand still hurt, skin slightly reddened.

Treville stroked the head of his horse, patted the muscular neck and sighed.

“Athos can be such an idiot,” he said.

Bastard harrumphed, and a derogatory snort came from the end of the stable.

“I don’t even know how he could think that comment wouldn’t backfire. It was thoughtless, and hurtful, unnecessary and absolutely not true.”

Bastard snorted in agreement and placed his heavy head on Treville’s shoulder, while the Captain scratched him behind one of the ears. The stable corner where the sobs had come from was now silent.

“I had thought better of Athos, especially after I had finally made him my lieutenant. But his behaviour was far from grown up, today.”

Bastard whickered, blew some more warm air down Treville’s back. A shuffling noise told the Captain that d’Artagnan was still listening in, silent but attentive.

“And you know what upsets me the most?” Treville continued, pushing off the head of his horse and turning around to grab one of the brushes, “Athos has no idea what he is saying. And with dropping thoughtless comments like that, he doesn’t only offend his friends, but also me, because d’Artagnan’s father was a friend of mine.” The brush went in long strokes through the thick fur, and Bastard blissfully shook out his mane.

“And it’s neither his nor his son’s fault, that people can sometimes get into situations that they can’t get out of again, no matter their skill with any sort of weaponry. Being outnumbered would be such a situation. Being attacked from behind, or other ambush situations, being stabbed while sleeping. Or being shot while held at gunpoint.” Treville’s strokes got more and more energetic, and Bastard looked at him through soulful eyes, whinnying sadly. The horse felt the emotional pain of its owner, and seeing Bastard’s hopeful little attempts at cheering him up made Treville smile indeed.

“Yes, I try to train my boys so they learn to fight under all sorts of circumstances, including the kind of warfare that attempts to mess with the head, as well as fighting physically with skill. But d’Artagnan hasn’t been with us for long, and a low blow like this… I can understand why he went for a tactical retreat.”

“I didn’t retreat,” d’Artagnan said, and his voice still thick and raspy from crying. “And I don’t need your pity.”

Treville resisted the desire to turn around to face his newest recruit and kept cleaning Bastard.

“I don’t pity you,” he replied, instead. “I feel compassion for you, because the behaviour of my second in command was absolutely intolerable and inappropriate for the situation. He is being suitably punished.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Treville did not sigh, even though he might have wanted to. He also did not run his hand through his hair again, mussing it even more than he already had outside in the yard. But he stopped the rhythmic stroking, turned around and leaned against his horse’s shoulder, instead.

“I know you don’t need it, but I still want to give it to you. I meant what I said. Your father was a good friend of mine, and I am not overly delighted by Athos’ making derogatory remarks about him.”

Treville smiled, as he continued, a smile just for the young and very distrustful looking Gascon in front of him: “You have his temperament, d’Artagnan. And his talent in using a rapier. I have not had many recruits able to handle a blade as well as you when you first came to the Garrison. You should be proud of yourself, instead of letting Athos bring you down. It is not your fault that the circumstances were very much fighting against you when your father was killed. I don’t think even I would have survived an ambush like that.”

“You are only saying that to make me feel better,” d’Artagnan grumbled, but he had not left yet. He was still looking warily at his captain.

“There is a fine line between pity and compassion,” Treville said, his voice soft and comforting, and he stepped away from his horse and towards his recruit. He placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, looking into the kid’s eyes. “But it is there, nonetheless. If I would pity you, I would only be saying it to make you feel better, yes. But you weren’t even in the same room as your father when he was shot. I truly believe what I said – sometimes a situation is just too much to handle, and, sad as it is, we don’t always manage to run.”

He squeezed the shoulder, and felt d’Artagnan lean into the touch.

“There is no shame in running when there is nothing to gain,” he added, quietly, still looking into the younger man’s eyes. D’Artagnan lowered his eyes first and stared at the muddy tips of his captain’s boots. Finally, he gave a tiny nod and swallowed heavily.

Before he got to step away, Treville offered: “If you want to, we can just stay here for a while. No one will come here to interrupt us, and I could tell you a few stories from the time your father and I spent at the regiment together.”

D’Artagnan’s head rucked up in surprise, with a delighted sparkle in his eyes, which he tried to quash as fast as he could. But Treville had seen it, and he gave the Gascon an answering grin before simply sitting down in the straw next to his horse, patting the ground besides him.

And as soon as d’Artagnan had got himself comfortable, Treville began to weave his tale.


End file.
